Writing, or Watching the Wrench-Eater

Somedays, I miss blogging for the sake of it. I mean, I do it now, but there was a time that I had one blog for ALL the people that knew me, where I had to watch my mouth (and my step), one for all the funny people that DIDN’T know me (in real life) and one that NOBODY read (shhh, it’s a secret!).

On those days, it didn’t matter what I felt like writing, I could just write whatever I wanted. I could post pictures of my cute kids on the one, I could write something about farts and sex on the other and I could write about my wife’s shithead siblings on the other.

Now there’s just this one, and the expanding freedom I’m feeling with it only comes from the fact that nobody reads it. Which makes me sad, of sorts. And happy, of sorts.

I do wonder what people think when they stop by, like folks from the ToyNerd forums, or SwordNerds, or WritingNerds, or IT Nerds (why do I only know nerds?!), but then I remember that most of them probably already have a fairly skewed picture of me anyway. Writing about toys, or books, or spiritual things like clouds, or angry things like Jo’s fuckhead family all off in Melbourne this weekend further cutting her out of their lives, none of it means that anybody will like me any more, or any less.

They may a bit more… informed, but it’s not like it’s anything I wouldn’t tell them were they to ask. But really, nobody does.

Sometimes, I like to just flex the writing muscle a bit, but then I look at the clock and realise it’s 4:43 PM and I started writing at 4:23 PM. It took probably 2-3 minutes to write this, and 17-18 to push the toddler on his swing, deal with a naughty 10-yo (the slightly autistic one), help the 5-yo blow up a flat soccer ball and shake out a tarp full of redbacks so that the kids can more freely wander this, our tiny and shitty front yard.

Maybe I oughta switch to being a photographer instead of a writer. Then I could just walk around with my camera around my neck and I wouldn’t have to stop taking photos while keeping the tot from eating yet another one of my wrenches.